And full replete with bliss; save the sweet pain,
That, inly thrilling, but exalts it more.
Nor yet injurious act, nor surly deed,
Was known among those happy sons of Heav'n;
For reason and benevolence were law.
Harmonious nature too look'd smiling on.
Clear shone the skies, cool'd with eternal gales,
And balmy spirit all. The youthful sun

Shot his best rays; and still the gracious clouds
Drop'd fatness down; as o'er the swelling mead,
The herds and flocks, commixing, play'd secure.
This when, emergent from the gloomy wood,
The glaring lion saw, his horrid heart
Was meeken'd, and he join'd his sullen joy;
For music held the whole in perfect peace:
Soft sigh'd the flute: the tender voice was heard,
Warbling the varied heart; the woodlands round
Apply'd their quire; and winds and waters flow'd
In consonance. Such were those prime of days.
But now those white unblemish'd manners, whence
The fabling poets took their golden age,
Are found no more amid these iron times,
These dregs of life! Now the distemper'd mind
Has lost that concord of harmonious pow'rs,
Which forms the soul of happiness; and all
Is off the poise within: the passions all

Have burst their bounds; and reason, half extinct,
Or impotent, or else approving, sees
The foul disorder. Senseless, and deform'd,
Convulsive anger storms at large; or pale,
And silent, settles into fell revenge.
Base envy withers at another's joy,
And hates that excellence it cannot reach.
Desponding fear, of feeble fancies full,
Weak and unmanly, loosens ev'ry pow'r.
F'en love itself is bitterness of soul,
A pensive anguish pining at the heart;
Or, sunk to sordid int'rests, feels no more
That noble wish, that never cloy'd desire,
Which, selfish joy disdaining, seeks alone
To bless the dearer object of its flame.
Hope sickens with extravagance; and grief,
Of life impatient, into madness swells,
Or in dead silence wastes the weeping hours.
These, and a thousand mix'd emotions more,
From ever-changing views of good and ill,
Form'd infinitely various, vex the mind

With endless storm: whence, deeply rankling, grows
The partial thought, a listless unconcern,
Cold, and averting from our neighbour's good;
Then dark disgust, and hatred, winding wiles,
Coward deceit, aud ruffian violence:

At last, extinct each social feeling, fell

And joyless inhumanity pervades

And petrifies the heart. Nature, disturb'd,
Is deem'd vindictive, to have chang'd her course.
Hence, in old dusky time, a deluge came;
When the deep-cleft disparting orb, that arch'd
The central waters round, impetuous rush'd,
With universal burst, into the gulf;

And o'er the high-pil'd hills of fractur'd earth
Wide dash'd the waves, in undulation vast;
Till, from the centre to the streaming clouds,
A shoreless ocean tumbled round the globe.

The Seasons since have, with severer sway,
Oppress'd a broken world: the Winter keen
Shook forth his waste of snows; and Summer shot
His pestilential heats. Great Spring, before,
Green'd all the year; and fruits and blossoms blush'd
In social sweetness, on the self same bough.
Pure was the temp'rate air; an even calm
Perpetual reign'd, save what the zephyrs bland
Breath'd o'er the blue expanse; for then nor storms
Were taught to blow, nor hurricanes to rage;

Sound slept the waters; no sulphureous glooms
Swell'd in the sky, and sent the lightning forth;
While sickly damps, and cold autumnal fogs,
Hung not, relaxing, on the springs of life.
But now, of turbid elements the sport,
From clear to cloudy tost, from hot to cold,
Aud dry to moist, with inward-eating change,
Our drooping days are dwindled down to nought,
Their period finish'd ere 'tis well begun.

And yet the wholesome herb neglected dies;
Though with the pure exhilarating soul
Of nutriment and health, and vital pow'rs,
Beyond the search of art, 'tis copious blest.
For, with hot ravin fir'd, ensanguin'd Man
Is now become the lion of the plain,
And worse. The wolf, who from the nightly fold
Fierce drags the bleating prey, ne'er drunk her milk,
Nor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,
At whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
E'er plough'd for him. They too are temper'd high,
With hunger stung, and wild necessity,
Nor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
But man, whom Nature form'd of milder clay,
With ev'ry kind emotion in his heart,
And taught alone to weep; while from her lap
She pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs,
And fruits, as num'rous as the drops of rain

Or beams that gave them birth: shall he, fair form!
Who wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heav'n,
E'en stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
And dip his tongue in gore? the beast of prey,
Blood-stain'd, deserves to bleed: but you, ye flocks,
What have you done? ye peaceful people, what,
To merit death? you, who have giv'n us milk
In luscious streams, and lent us your own coat
Against the Winter's cold. And the plain ox,
That harmless, honest, guileless animal,
In what has he offended? he, whose toil,
Patient and ever ready, clothes the land
With all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,
And struggling groan beneath the cruel hands
E'en of the clown he feeds? and that, perhaps,
To swell the riot of th' autumnal feast,
Won by his labour? thus the feeling heart
Would tenderly suggest: but tis enough,
In this late age, adventrous, to have touch'd
Light on the numbers of the Samian sage.
High Heaven forbids the bold presumptuous strain,
Whose wisest will has fix'd us in a state
That must not yet to pure perfection rise.

Now when the first foul torrent of the brooks,
Swell'd with the vernal rains, is ebb'd away;
And, whit'ning, down their mossy-tinctur'd stream
Descends the billowy foam: now is the time,
While yet the dark-brown water aids the guile,
To tempt the trout. The well dissembled fly,
The rod fine-tap'ring with elastic spring,
Snatch'd from the hoary steed the floating line,
And all thy slender watry stores prepare.
But let not on thy hook the tortur'd worm,
Convulsive, twist in agonizing folds;
Which, by rapacious hunger swallow'd deep,
Gives, as you tear it from the bleeding breast
Of the weak hapless uncomplaining wretch,
Harsh pain and horror to the tender hand.

When with his lively ray the potent sun
Has pierc'd the streams, and rous'd the finny-race,
Then, issuing cheerful, to thy sport repair;
Chief should the western breezes curling play,
And light o'er ether bear the shadowy clouds.
High to their fount, this day, amid the hills,
And woodlands warbling round, trace up the brooks;
The next, pursue their rocky-channel'd maze,
Down to the river, in whose ample wave

Their little naiads love to sport at large."
Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils
Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank
Reverted plays in undulating flow:
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly;
And as you lead it round in artful curve,
With eye attentive mark the springing game.
Straight as above the surface of the flood
They wanton rise, or urg'd by hunger leap,
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook :
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank,
And to the shelving shore slow-dragging some,
With various hand proportion'd to their force.
If yet too young, and easily deceiv'd,

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod,
Him, piteous of his youth and the short space
He has enjoy'd the vital light of Heav'n,
Soft disengage; and back into the stream

The speckled captive throw. But should you lure
From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots
Of pendant trees, the monarch of the brook,
Behoves you then to ply your finest art.

Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly;
And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft
The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear.
At last, whilst haply o'er the shaded sun
Passes a cloud, he desp❜rate takes the death,
With sullen plunge. At once he darts along,
Deep-struck, and runs out all the lengthen❜d line;
Then seeks the farthest ooze, the shelt'ring weed
The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode;
And flies aloft, and flounces round the pool,
Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand,
That feels him still, yet to his furious course
Gives way, you, now retiring, following now
Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage,
Till floating broad upon his breathless side,
And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore
You gaily drag your unresisting prize.

Thus pass the temp'rate hours: but when the sun
Shakes from his noon-day throne the scatt'ring clouds
E'en shooting listless languor through the deeps;
Then seek the bank where flow'ring elders crowd,
Where scatter'd wild the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes, where cowslips hang
The dewy head, where purple violets lurk,
With all the lowly children of the shade:
Or lie reclin'd beneath yon spreading ash,
Hung o'er the steep, whence, borne on liquid wing,
The sounding culver shoots; or where the hawk,
High, in the beetling cliff, his aerie builds.
There let the classic page thy fancy lead
Through rural scenes, such as the Mantuan swain
Paints in the matchless harmony of song.
Or catch thyself the landscape, gliding swift
Athwart imagination's vivid eye:
Or by the vocal woods and waters lull'd,
And lost in lonely musing, in the dream,
Confus'd, of careless solitude, where mix
Ten thousand wand'ring images of things,
Soothe ev'ry gust of passion into peace;
All but the swellings of the soften❜d heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind.

Behold! yon breathing prospect bids the Muse
Throw all her beauty forth. But who can paint
Like Nature? Can imagination boast,
Amid its gay creation, hues like her's?

Or can it mix them with that matchless skill,
And lose them in each other, as appears
In ev'ry bud that blows? If fancy then
Unequal fails beneath the pleasing task,

Ah, what shall language do? Ah, where find words
Ting'd with so many colours; and whose pow'r,

To life approaching, may perfume my lays
With that fine oil, those aromatic gales,
That inexhaustive flow continual round?

Yet, though successless, will the toil delight. Come then, ye virgins and ye youths, whose hearts Have felt the raptures of refining love;

And thou, Amanda, come, pride of my song!
Form'd by the Graces, loveliness itself!
Come with those downcast eyes, sedate and sweet;
Those looks demure, that deeply pierce the soul;
Where, with the light of thoughtful reason mix'd,
Shines lively fancy and the feeling heart:
Oh come! and while the rosy-footed May
Steals blushing on, together let us tread
The morning dews, and gather in their prime
Fresh-blooming flow'rs, to grace thy braided hair,
And thy lov'd bosom that improves their sweets.

See, where the winding vale its lavish stores,
Irriguous, spreads. See, how the lily drinks
The latent rill, scarce oozing through the grass,
Of growth luxuriant; or the humid bank,
In fair profusion decks. Long let us walk,
Where the breeze blows from yon extended field
Of blossom'd beans. Arabia cannot boast

A fuller gale of joy, than, lib'ral, thence

Breathes through the sense, and takes the ravish'd soul.

Nor is the mead unworthy of thy foot,
Full of fresh verdure, and unnumber'd flow'rs,
The negligence of Nature, wide, and wild,
Where, undisguis'd by mimic Art, she spreads
Unbounded beauty to the roving eye.
Here their delicious task the fervent bees,
In swarming millions, tend: around, athwart,
Through the soft air, the busy nations fly;
Cling to the bud, and, with inserted tube,
Suck its pure essence, its ethereal soul;
And oft, with bolder wing, they soaring dare
The purple heath, or where the wild thyme grows,
And yellow load them with the luscious spoil.
At length the finish'd garden to the view
Its vistas opens, and its alleys green.
Snatch'd through the verdant maze, the hurried eye
Distracted wanders; now the bow'ry walk
Of covert close, where scarce a speck of day
Falls on the lengthen'd gloom, protracted sweeps:
Now meets the bending sky; the river now
Dimpling along, the breezy ruffled lake,
The forest dark'ning round, the glitt'ring spire,
Th' ethereal mountain, and the distant main.
But why so far extensive? when at hand,
Along these blushing borders, bright with dew,
And in yon mingled wilderness of flow'rs,
Fair-handed Spring unbosoms ev'ry grace;
Throws out the snow-drop, and the crocus first;
The daisy, primrose, violet darkly blue,
And polyanthus of unnumber'd dyes;
The yellow wall-flower, stain'd with iron brown;
And lavish stock that scents the garden round:
From the soft wing of vernal breezes shed,
Anemonies, auriculas, enrich'd;

With shining meal o'er all their velvet leaves;
And full ranunculas, of glowing red.

Then comes the tulip-race, where beauty plays
Her idle freaks: from family diffus'd

To family, as flies the father-dust,

The varied colours run; and while they break
On the charm'd eye, th' exulting florist marks
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand.
No gradual bloom is wanting; from the bud,
First born of Spring, to Summer's musky tribes:
Nor hyacinths, of purest virgin white,
Low-bent, and blushing inward; nor jonquils,
Of potent fragrance; nor Narcissus fair,

Connubial leagues agreed, to the deep woods
They haste away, all as their fancy leads,
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety, prompts;
That Nature's great command may be obey'd:
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive
Indulg'd in vain. Some to the holly-hedge
Nestling repair, and to the thicket some:
Some to the rude protection of the thorn
Commit their feeble offspring: the cleft tree
Offers its kind concealment to a few,
Their food its insects, and its moss their nests.
Others, apart, far in the grassy dale,
Or rough'ning waste, their humble texture weave.
But most in woodland solitudes delight,
In unfrequented glooms, or shaggy banks,
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook,
Whose murmurs soothe them all the live-long day,
When by kind duty fix'd. Among the roots
Of hazel, pendent o'er the plaintive stream,
They frame the first foundation of their domes;
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid,
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought
But restless hurry through the busy air,
Beat by unnumber'd wings. The swallow sweeps
The slimy pool, to build his hanging house
Intent. And often, from the careless back
Of herds and flocks, a thousand tugging bills
Pluck bair and wool; and oft, when unobserv'd,
Steal from the barn a straw: till soft and warm,
Clean and complete, their habitation grows.
As thus the patient dam assiduous sits,
Not to be tempted from her tender task,
Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight,
Though the whole loosen'd Spring around her blows,
Her sympathizing lover takes his stand
High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings
The tedious time away; or else supplies
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits
To pick the scanty, meal. Th' appointed time
With pious toil fulfill'd, the callow young,
Warm'd and expanded into perfect life,
Their brittle bondage break, and come to light,
A helpless family demanding food
With constant clamour. O what passions then,
What melting sentiments of kindly care,
On the new parents seize! Away they fly
Affectionate, and undesiring bear

The most delicious morsel to their young;
Which, equally distributed, again
The search begins. E'en so a gentle pair,
By fortune sunk, but form'd of gen'rous mould,
And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast,
In some lone cot amid the distant woods,
Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n,
Oft as they weeping eye their infant train,
Check their own appetites, and give them all.
Nor toil alone they scorn: exalting love,
By the great Father of the Spring inspir'd,
Gives instant courage to the fearful race,
And to the simple art. With stealthy wing,
Should some rude foot their woody haunts molest,
Amid a neighb'ring bush they silent drop,
And whirring thence, as if alarm'd, deceive
Th' unfeeling school-boy. Hence, around the head
Of wandering swain, the white-wing'd plover wheels

Her sounding flight; and then directly on

In long excursion skims the level lawn,

To tempt him from her nest. The wild duck, hence, O'er the rough moss, and o'er the trackless waste The heath-hen flutters, (pious fraud,) to lead

The hot pursuing spaniel far astray.

Be not the Muse asham'd, here to bemoan
Her brothers of the grove, by tyrant Man
Inhuman caught, and in the narrow cage
From liberty confin'd, and boundless air.
Dull are the pretty slaves, their plumage dull,
Ragged, and all its brightening lustre lost;
Nor is that sprightly wildness in their notes,
Which, clear and vig'rous, warbles from the beech.
O then, ye friends of love and love-taught song,
Spare the soft tribes, this barb'rous art forbear;
If on your bosom innocence can win,
Music engage, or piety persuade.
But let not chief the nightingale lament
Her ruin'd care, too delicately fram'd

To brook the harsh confinement of the cage.
Oft when, returning with her loaded bill,
Th' astonish'd mother finds a vacant nest,
By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns
Robb'd, to the ground the vain provision falls;
Her pinious ruffle, and low-drooping scarce
Can bear the mourner to the poplar shade;
Where, all abandon'd to despair, she sings

Her sorrows through the night; and, on the bough,
Sole-sitting, still at every dying fall

Takes up again her lamentable strain

Of winding woe; till wide around, the woods
Sigh to her song, and with her wail resound.

But now the feather'd youth their former bounds,
Ardent, disdain; and, weighing oft their wings,
Demand the free possession of the sky:
This one glad office more, and then dissolves
Parental love at once, now needless grown;
Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain.
'Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild,
When nought but balm is breathing through the
woods,

With yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes
Visit the spacious heav'ns, and look abroad
On Nature's common, far as they can see,

Or wing, their range and pasture. O'er the boughs
Dancing about, still at the giddy verge
Their resolution fails; their pinions still,
In loose libration stretch'd, to trust the void,
Trembling refuse: till down before them fly
The parent guides, and chide, exhort, command,
Or push them off. The surging air receives
Its plumy burden; and their self-taught wings
Winnow the waving element. On ground
Alighted, bolder up again they lead,
Farther and farther on, the length'ning flight;
Till vanish'd ev'ry fear, and ev'ry pow'r
Rouz'd into life and action, light in air
Th' acquitted parents see their soaring race,
And once rejoicing never know them more.
High from the summit of a craggy cliff,
Hung o'er the deep, such as amazing frowns
On utmost Kilda's shore, whose lonely race
Resign the setting sun to Indian worlds;
The royal eagle draws his vig'rous young,
Strong-pounc'd, and ardent with paternal fire.
Now fit to raise a kingdom of their own,
He drives them from his fort, the tow'ring seat,
For ages, of his empire; which, in peace,
Unstain'd he holds, while many a league to sea
He wings his course, and preys in distant isles.
Should I my steps turn to the rural seat,
Whose lofty elms, and venerable oaks,

The farthest of the western islands of Scotland.

Invite the rook; who high amid the boughs,

In early Spring, his airy city builds,

And ceaseless caws amusive; there, well-pleas'd,

I might the various polity survey

Of the mixt household kind. The careful hen
Calls all her chirping family around,

Fed and defended by the fearless cock;
Whose breast with ardour flames, as on he walks
Graceful, and crows defiance. In the pond,
The finely-checker'd duck before her train,
Rows garrulous. The stately-sailing swan
Gives out his snowy plumage to the gale;
And, arching proud his neck, with oary feet
Bears forward fierce, and guards his osier-isle,
Protective of his young. The turkey nigh,
Loud-threatening, reddens; while the peacock spreads
His every-colour'd glory to the sun,

And swims in radiant majesty along.

O'er the whole homely scene, the cooing dove Flies thick in am'rous chase, and wanton rolls The glancing eye, and turns the changeful neck. While thus the gentle tenants of the shade Indulge their purer loves, the rougher world Of brutes, below, rush furious into flame, And fierce desire. Through all his lusty veins The bull, deep-scorch'd, the raging passion feels. Of pasture sick, and negligent of food, Scarce seen, he wades among the yellow broom, While o'er his ample sides the rambling sprays Luxuriant shoot; or through the mazy wood Dejected wanders, nor th' inticing bud Crops, though it presses on his careless sense. And oft in jealous mad'ning fancy wrapt, He seeks the fight; and, idly-butting, feigns His rival gor'd in every knotty trunk. Him should he meet, the bellowing war begins: Their eyes flash fury; to the hollow'd earth, Whence the sand flies, they mutter bloody deeds, And groaning deep, th' impetuous battle mix: While the fair heifer, balmy breathing, near, Stands kindling up their rage. The trembling steed, With this hot impulse seiz'd in every nerve, Nor heeds the rein, nor hears the sounding thong: Blows are not felt; but tossing high his head, And by the well-known joy to distant plains Attracted strong, all wild he bursts away; O'er rocks, and woods, and craggy mountains flies; And, neighing, on the aerial summit takes Th' exciting gale; then, steep-descending, cleaves The headlong torrents foaming down the hills, E'en where the madness of the straiten'd stream Turns in black eddies round: such is the force With which his frantic heart and sinews swell. Nor undelighted by the boundless Spring Are the broad monsters of the foaming deep : From the deep ooze and gelid cavern rous'd They flounce and tumble in unwieldy joy. Dire were the strain, and dissonant, to sing The cruel raptures of the savage kind: How by this flame their native wrath sublim'd, They roam, amid the fury of their heart, The far-resounding waste in fiercer bands, And growl their horrid loves. But this the theme I sing, enraptur'd, to the British Fair, Forbids; and leads me to the mountain-brow, Where sits the shepherd on the grassy turf, Inhaling, healthful, the descending sun. Around him feeds his many-bleating flock, Of various cadence; and his sportive lambs, This way and that convolv'd, in friskful glee, Their frolics play. And now the sprightly race Invites them forth; when swift, the signal given, They start away, and sweep the massy mound That runs around the hill; the rampart once

Of iron war, in ancient barb❜rous times,
When disunited Britain ever bled,
Lost in eternal broil: ere yet she grew
To this deep-laid indissoluble state,

Where Wealth and Commerce lift their golden heads,
And o'er our labours, Liberty and Law,
Impartial, watch; the wonder of a world!

What is this mighty breath, ye sages, say,
That, in a pow'rful language, felt not heard,

Instructs the fowls of Heav'n! and through their breast

These arts of love diffuses? What, but God?
Inspiring God! who boundless Spirit all,

And unremitting Energy, pervades,
Adjusts, sustains, and agitates the whole.
He ceaseless works alone; and yet alone
Seems not to work with such perfection fram'd
Is this complex stupendous scheme of things.
But, though conceal'd, to ev'ry purer eye
Th' informing Author in his works appears:
Chief, lovely Spring! in thee, and thy soft scenes,
The Smiling God is seen; while water, earth,
And air attest his bounty; which exalts
The brute-creation to this finer thought,
And annual melts their undesigning hearts
Profusely thus in tenderness and joy.

Still let my song a nobler note assume,
And sing the' infusive force of Spring on man;
When heav'n and earth, as if contending, vie
To raise his being, and serene his soul.
Can he forbear to join the gen❜ral smile
Of Nature? Can fierce passions yex his breast,
While ev'ry gale is peace, and ev'ry grove
Is melody? Hence ! from the bounteous walks
Of flowing Spring, ye sordid, sons of earth,
Hard, and unfeeling of another's woe;
Or only lavish to yourselves; away!

But come, ye generous minds, in whose wide thought
Of all his works, creative bounty burns
With warmest beam; and on your open front
And lib'ral eye, sits, from his dark retreat
Inviting modest Want. Nor, till invok'd,
Can restless goodness wait: your active search
Leaves no cold wintry corner unexplor❜d;
Like silent-working Heaven, surprising oft
The lonely heart with unexpected good.
For
you the roving spirit of the wind

Blows Spring abroad; for you the teeming clouds
Descend in gladsome plenty o'er the world;
And the sun sheds his kindest rays for you,
Ye flow'r of human race! In these green days,
Reviving sickness lifts her languid head;
Life flows afresh; and young-ey'd Health exalts
The whole creation round. Contentment walks
The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss
Spring o'er her heart, beyond the pow'r of kings
To purchase. Pure serenity apace
Induces thought, and contemplations still.
By swift degrees the love of Nature works,
And warms. the bosom; till at last sublim'd
To rapture, and enthusiastic heat,
We feel the present Deity, and taste
The joy of God to see a happy world!

These are the sacred feelings of thy heart,
Thy heart inform'd by reason's purer ray,
O Lyttleton, the friend! thy passions thus
And meditations vary, as at large,

Courting the Muse, through Hagley Park thou
stray'st,

Thy British Tempé! there along the dale,
With woods o'erhung, and shagg'd with mossy rocks,
Whence on each hand the gushing waters play,

And down the rough cascade white-dashing fall,
Or gleam in lengthen'd vista through the trees
You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade
Of solemn oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts
Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand,
And pensive listen to the various voice

Of rural peace: the herds, and flocks, the birds,
The hollow-whispering breeze, the plaint of rills,
That, purling down amid the twisted roots
Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake
On the sooth'd ear. From these abstracted oft
You wander through the philosophic world;
Where in bright train continual wonders rise,
Or to the curious or the pious eye.
And oft, conducted by historic truth,
You tread the long extent of backward time;
Planning, with warm benevolence of mind,
And honest zeal unwarp'd by party-rage,
Britannia's weal; how from the venal gulf,
To raise her virtue, and her arts revive.
Or, turning thence thy view, these graver thoughts
The Muses charm: while, with sure taste refin'd,
You draw th' inspiring breath of ancient song;
Till nobly rises, emulous, thy own.
Perhaps thy lov'd Lucinda shares thy walk,
With soul to thine attun'd. Then Nature all
Wears to the lover's eye a look of love;
And all the tumult of a guilty world,
Tost by ungen'rous passions, sinks away.
The tender heart is animated peace;
And as it pours its copious treasures forth,
In varied converse, soft'ning ev'ry theme,
You, frequent-pausing, turn, and from her eyes,
Where meeken'd sense, and amiable grace,
And lively sweetness dwell, enraptur❜d drink
That nameless spirit of ethereal joy,
Unutterable happiness! which love,
Alone, bestows, and on a favour'd few.
Meantime you gain the height, from whose fair brow
The bursting prospect spreads immense around;
And snatched o'er hill and dale, and wood and lawn,
And verdant field, and darkening heath between;
And villages embosom'd soft in trees,

And spiry towns by surging columns mark'd
Of household smoke, your eye excursive roams:
Wide-stretching from the hall, in whose kind haunt
The Hospitable Genius lingers still,

To where the broken landscape, by degrees,
Ascending, roughens into rigid hills;

O'er which the Cambrian mountains, like far clouds
That skirt the blue horizon, dusky rise.

Flush'd by the spirit of the genial year, Now from the virgin's cheek a fresher bloom Shoots, less and less, the live carnation round; Her lips blush deeper sweets; she breathes of youth; The shining moisture swells into her eyes, In brighter flow; her wishing bosom heaves, With palpitations wild; kind tumults seize Her veins, and all her yielding soul is love. From the keen gaze her lover turns away, Full of the dear ecstatic power, and sick, With sighing languishment. Ah, then ye fair! ; Be greatly cautious of your sliding heart: Dare not the' infections sigh; the pleading look, Down-cast, and low, in meek submission drest, But full of guile. Let not the fervent tongue, Prompt to deceive, with adulation smooth, Gain on your purpos'd will. Nor in the bower, Where woodbines flaunt, and roses shed a couch, While evening draws her crimson curtains round, Trust your soft minutes with betraying man.

And let th' aspiring youth beware of love, Of the smooth glance beware; for 'tis too late,